The Narrative Imperative Series

Mrs. Anna E. Hess

Fear and Faith in the Pantry

Mrs. Anna E. Hess was ladling her clam chowder into a Tupperware container to take to the lunch meeting of the Washington County Lady’s Missionary Society when she heard the motorcycle stop in front of her house. Peering out of her kitchen window, she saw a bearded man in black leather and chains came to the door. He knocked with an urgency that she took for anger. Although it was only one motorcyclist, she had heard enough about the men in black leather to have such a fright that she left the ladle and the chowder on the counter and hid in the pantry. She didn’t regret her actions when, after only a few knocks, the man opened up the door and stepped in.

It was dark in the pantry with the door shut, but Mrs. Hess was so knowledgeable of the location of every item in it that she rarely ever had to turn on the light. Therefore, it was no problem for her to find two cans of corn and put them in a bag to have as a weapon in case the man should find her there while he was robbing her home. She placed the bag on the top shelf behind her and grasped it so that, if he opened the door, she could bring it down upon his head. With her other hand, she took hold of the broom handle, so that she would have a second weapon with her in case the cans of corn didn’t prove sufficient.

Mrs. Hess was sorry to have to take such action based on the appearance of the man at the door. She knew it was not the Christian thing to do, but she was afraid. She would not be hiding in the pantry if Frank were still alive. No, she would be greeting the man at the door to offer him whatever he needed while Frank kept a watchful eye at a distance. If the stranger asked for a jacket, she would give him a coat, also. Mrs. Hess would also be more hospitable if her son or his boy were at the house, but they were out back, burning brush in a clearing they had made. Even arthritic Gus would give her more courage if he were here to bark at the stranger, although he would most likely remain lying by the fire while he barked. But Gus was with Frank, chasing rabbits in doggy heaven with a new body, and she was left here in the pantry with the cans of corn.

It then occurred to Mrs. Hess that she was not alone in the pantry. She was with God, although she had forgotten for a moment. She should have known. She was always with God; she talked to Him all day long. She and God were not like many old couples that had been together so long they needed no words to communicate. Mrs. Hess talked to God continuously, about everything. In fact, if God didn’t have the patience of Job, he might have stopped her ceaseless chatter years ago. As it stood, God seemed to enjoy Mrs. Hess talking with Him, as she enjoyed doing the talking. She went out of her way to find things to report to God and belonged to a prayer chain that caused her phone to ring constantly with prayer requests, all of which she passed on faithfully to Him. People seemed to want Mrs. Hess to pray for them, if only because she, like a lobbyist of the spirit, was on such familiar terms with The Almighty that they could be sure their message would go through.

Prayer seemed to be in order in this situation, so Mrs. Hess began to pray. She prayed that the stranger would not find her in the pantry. She prayed that he would take what he wanted and get out. She prayed that he would fall off his motorcycle and die. She felt bad for that prayer and prayed that God would forgive her. She prayed for the stranger, that he would find whatever he was looking for, that he would find God, just as she had, and be on familiar terms with Him, also. She prayed that she would have the strength to brain him with the corn if he came close to her. It’s hard to know just how to pray in frightful circumstances, so she settled on the all-purpose, Swiss army knife of prayers: Thy will be done.

Armed, thus, she was disarmed when the man called out, “Hello, anyone home! Your woods are on fire!”

Indeed, she knew that they were and imagined that, from the road, it would look as though a forest fire was threatening the home. She concluded that this man, although frightful in appearance and mistaken as to the danger, was performing a good Christian act, even if he were no Christian. Mrs. Hess might have remained in the pantry and let him do his calling through the house till he was satisfied that no one was home and left, but, as he was kind enough to stop, she thought she would be kind enough to spare him the trouble. She opened the door, leaving behind the broom, but bringing out the cans of corn. There she met the motorcyclist, complete with the leather, chains, beard, and tattoos that frightened her about them. In the biker’s eyes, she recognized grief.

“Oh, I was just in the pantry getting corn,” she said, exhaling her anxieties about the stranger and thanks to God. “Bless you, but my son and his boy are back in the woods, burning brush.”

“Oh,” he said, and looked at his feet, embarrassed. “I’m sorry I came in like that, I just thought…”

Mrs. Hess emptied the bag and placed the cans of corn on the counter. “No, that was a very good thing to do. I’m glad I met you — Mr…”

“Case, my name is Curt Case,” he said, backing towards the door. She could see he was profoundly uncomfortable, having little experience with polite conversation. “I’d better hit the road.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m Mrs. Anna E. Hess. Have you had lunch?” she asked.

“No, ma’am.”

She could see he was a man of few words, but his needs were great; Mrs. Hess could practically read them on his face. The Lord has been busy, she thought, sending this man here.

“Then, you must have lunch with us. I’m going to a luncheon meeting and you can help me carry this food,” she said as she struggled to open a can of corn. “You’re a big, strong man. Can you help me open this?”

Curt cranked open the cans of corns that, a minute ago, might have laid him low. In no time, the two were on their way to the Washington County Lady’s Missionary Society Luncheon. Mrs. Hess drove sedately in an old Lincoln while he balanced the chowder and the corn on his knees.

“We don’t send missionaries to Africa, or anything like that,” she explained. “We keep an eye out for people in need right here in Washington County. When we hear of something, we call out the troops. We’ll each bring them a dish, or watch the children, or do whatever is needed. We pray for people, too, but sometimes prayer needs hands and feet.”

They pulled up to a restored one-room schoolhouse. “The men helped us fix up this place,” she said of the ladies’ husbands, jokingly referred to as The Mens’ Auxiliary of The Washington County Lady’s Missionary Society. She prayed everyday for these men. So many men need prayer, thought Mrs. Hess, because their insides don’t match their outsides. Either they look like an animal on the outside, like this stranger, Curt Case, while inside is a scared child. Or, on the outside, is a compliant, bullied child; while on the inside, anger seethes. Reticence is the surest sign of the Devil and the Lord fighting within.

In the schoolhouse, the ladies stirred their potluck contributions heating on a wood stove. Heavily carved and lacquered school desks were arranged in a circle and, on the wall, watching over the whole gathering, was the county’s namesake, George Washington; other than Curt, the only man in the room.

“Anna, who did you bring to our meeting?” said the ladies in alarm.

“Why, this is Mr. Curt Case, a very nice man who was ready to save my house from a forest fire.”

“A forest fire?” They said, with continued alarm.

“Frank, Jr. and Steve were only burning brush, but to someone riding by, it looked like a forest fire.”

“Oh,” said the ladies. They went on with astonishment, “You brought two dishes, clam chowder and corn. You only needed to bring one.”

“I brought two people, didn’t I? One dish per person. What did y’all bring?”

“Creamed codfish, carrots, Coke, cookies, and cake,” crowed the ladies.

“And Curt Case,” cracked Mrs. Hess.

They cackled. “Just as if we said for everyone to bring C things.”

“The Lord had everybody bring a thing that started with C, just to show us He’s involved,” said Mrs. Hess. “He wants us to open our eyes and see.”

The ladies insisted on serving Curt. They had him wedge himself behind a school desk and placed a heaping plate in front of him. “Let us pray,” said Mrs. Hess when they all had their seats and plates. Curt put down a half eaten forkful of codfish as she said, “Lord, we thank you for the food we are about to eat and the fellowship all around the circle. We ask you to give us sight, so we can see the needs of people around us, rather than their faults. Give us, Oh Lord, the will to do your work. Amen.”

“Amen,” said the ladies. Mrs. Hess looked over at Curt, who was shoveling in food like Esau downing his potage. The ladies gossiped about their neighbors till she felt embarrassed by them, then recognizing a hypercritical spirit in her own thoughts, felt embarrassed of herself.

“Would you like another plate?” she said to Craig when he finished.

He started to get up to fix it himself, but the school desk came up with him, he was wedged in so tightly.

“No, don’t get up. I’ll get it for you.”

He couldn’t meet her eye when she returned with the plate. She could see he had another need besides food, so she said, “Mr. Case, may we pray for you?”

He couldn’t take another bite, or speak; the feeling was so strong. The tears came tentative at first, until the ladies asked, “What’s wrong. What would you like us to pray for?” Then unlocked a torrent of anguish that astonished them more than rage would ever have.

Mrs. Hess, who knew something about anguish, said, “No, you don’t need to tell us what’s wrong, we don’t need to know, the Lord knows.”

She added, “When we don’t know how to pray, the Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness by praying for us in groanings that cannot be expressed in words. Our Father, who knows all hearts, understands what Mr. Case is saying with his tears. That’s enough for me.”

Keith R Wilson is a mental health counselor in private practice. Read more of his fiction series, The Narrative Imperative and other stuff.